


What a laugh it would have been (and other stories)

by theperipheral



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Morning, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-02-17 01:56:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13066728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theperipheral/pseuds/theperipheral
Summary: A collection of nonlinear ficlets and prompts based around a modern au clexa family1. What a laugh it would have been. For the prompt: Clexa kid sees mommy (Clarke) kissing Santa Claus (Lexa) and confronts the two.2. Inevitable. For the prompt: Clarke and Lexa years into their marriage find out that they photo bombed each other's childhood Disney pic when they were 6 y.o after revisiting their old family album3. Willow. Octavia and Lincoln are proud parents to a brand new baby girl - but they're exhausted. Clarke and Lexa are kind enough to take her off their hands for a night. Set before clexa are parents themselves





	1. What a laugh it would have been

“And then, when he’d put the last present under the tree, Santa climbed back up the chimney and got in his sleigh, and flew all the way back home so he could go to sleep. He was so tired because he’d been up aaaall night!” Clarke flashes her eyes wide to emphasise her point. “So he tucked his reindeer into their stables and said goodnight to all his elves, and then he went to bed to get his sleep, because the next day he’d start working on new toys to make sure he had enough for next Christmas.”

Drooping eyelids signal her impending victory against the stubborn child before her. She’s cheering internally, but she doesn’t let it show. Her face remains a soothing and patient visage as her little boy tries in vain to keep his eyes open, mumbling about elves and reindeer and other assorted magical creatures. His head lolls to the side and his breathing evens out. Clarke presses a kiss to his forehead, then sets the old baby monitor on the shelf where he won’t reach it. There’s no way he’s going to sneak up on her if he wakes up.

She escapes the room and closes the door with practiced silence. She breathes a sigh of relief and checks her watch. She was in there for over an hour trying to calm Isaac down, but at last, at _last_ , he’s asleep and thank god. He’s been bouncing off the walls all day in the way that only a kid excited for Christmas can. Now, he’s asleep and Clarke can finally get to work.

There’s still so much to prepare and Lexa - the very reason that Christmas is such a big deal in their home, isn’t back yet. She normally wouldn’t have gone out on Christmas eve, but of course, there’d been a shortage at the soup kitchen and she had to help out. She called at bath-time to say that traffic’s worse than usual, that she’ll be home as soon as she can, that she’ll give Isaac extra kisses in the morning to make up for it. Clarke can’t even be mad about it, it’s just who she fell in love with.

She creeps down the stairs and slips a pair of shoes on, then unlocks the garage. Hidden on high shelves behind economy packs of detergent and old boxes of junk are an assortment of toys that need to be lugged down to be wrapped and ready for the tree. Clarke’s smart about it – she’s done this before after all. She digs out Isaac’s pull cart and loads it up with a veritable mountain of brightly coloured plastic and cardboard. It’ll still take a few trips this way but it’s better than stumbling through the house with armfuls of toys.

 When everything’s in the living room, Clarke sighs deeply. She doesn’t remember buying quite so _much_. They’ve been buying small things here and there since Isaac’s birthday in June and the pile has turned out more substantial than planned. It was all supposed to be little things to compliment the big gifts, but seeing it all together makes Clarke rethink her choices. There’s going to be a very spoiled little boy in the morning.

It takes her a while to locate tape and scissors, but eventually she’s settled and making progress in wrapping the pile of toys in sheets of festive paper. She’s trying to figure out how to wrap a ball when finally she hears the hum of Lexa’s car in the driveway. She abandons the mess of paper and sticky tape and goes to unlock the side door, where she meets –

“Santa?”

A decidedly skinny Santa, that is. Red suit, curly beard and pom-pom’d hat all turn to her and there’s an odd belly laugh that definitely isn’t coming from and old man.

“Lexa, what the hell are you wearing?”

“Some guy spilled his orange juice on me, and this was all they had spare.”

Lexa holds her arms out and does a little twirl in the comically oversized costume.

“Hmm, that doesn’t explain the beard.”

“It completes the look,” Lexa says, waving dismissively. “It’s wrong to have the suit without it. Wait, are you telling me to shave?”

“You could just take it off.”

Lexa plants her hands on her hips and shakes her head.

“No, no, it’s my beard and no wife of mine is going to tell me what to do with my facial hair. The beard stays.”

Clarke raises an eyebrow.

“It’s not itchy?”

“Totally,” Lexa admits with a sharp nod. She still doesn’t take it off. Clarke relents and steps aside to let her in.

“Well Santa, you’re just in time. How are your wrapping skills?” she asks as Lexa tugs her boots off and places them on the mat to dry. They trudge into the living room where Clarke sits Lexa down where she was working a few minutes ago.

“I normally leave it to the elves,” Lexa says when she sees the ball.

“Pull your weight, old man.”

Clarke positions herself well away from the mess she started earlier and grabs a doll that’s handily packaged in a rectangular box. She cuts a fresh sheet of paper from the roll as Santa-Lexa looks at her task and frowns under her shiny white beard.

“I hate you.”

“That’s not very cheerful of you. Where’s your Christmas spirit?”

“This coming from the woman who doesn’t let me put the decorations up until the thirteenth.”

“There are twelve days of Christmas and your true love gives you something on every one of them, so shut your face.”

“I still hate you,” Santa says with a pout. She tries folding paper over the ball. It rips.

“Mmhm, no lords-a-leaping for you tonight then.”

“Thank god for that.”

Clarke tapes her last fold in place and adds the doll to the pile of ‘done’ toys.

“Shame, you would have liked it.”

“Lords, Clarke, what use do I have for _lords_?”

“You’ll never find out now.”

Lexa huffs and tries again with a different roll of paper that looks stronger. The result is poor, but it holds together so she’s smug as she tosses it under the tree.

“Give me another one, I can do anything right now,” she declares with a flourish. Clarke revels in the regret on her face when she hands over a plastic tricycle. “Fuck you.”

The work is slow, mostly because Lexa keeps forgetting about her beard and gets it caught under strips of tape. Before long the ‘to-do’ pile is smaller than the ‘done’ pile, and they let themselves take a break to dig into the tray of cookies and milk Isaac left out earlier.

“You guys should bake more often, these are fantastic,” Lexa declares around a mouthful.

“The secret is the boogers Isaac sneaks in when he thinks I’m not looking.”

“Is that what that tang is?”

Clarke shakes her head.

“Orange peel,” she says, brushing the crumbs from her sweater and taking a sip of milk. “So how many years of this Santa thing do you think we have left? I feel bad for lying to him and I’d like a little credit for the gifts.”

“He’s not even four, Clarke, I’m pretty sure we’re okay for a while.”

 “Yeah, but he’s _smart_.”

“He told me he wants to be a race car when he grows up,” Lexa says pointedly.

“Is there a college program for that?”

The plate of cookies is half depleted but the carrot still remains. In a few minutes when it’s all that’s left, they’ll argue about who has to nibble it, even though neither of them would dislike it. It’s been part of their Christmas tradition since Isaac’s first. He was only 6 months old at the time and completely unaware, but Lexa in her infinite love for festivities had explained to him that he had to leave something out for Santa and the reindeer. Clarke has to admit, it was cute. There’s a framed picture on her desk of her two favourite people – baby Isaac gumming a carrot and Lexa realising and trying to pry it away from him.

They manage to get everything done by one in the morning, which is impressive given that they have the biggest, most ridiculous pile of gifts for their son.

“He’s going to be so excited when he wakes up,” Lexa grins as they tidy the evidence away. The last of the wrapping paper is bundled into the closet for next year, on top of last year’s that they forgot about, and the gifts are arranged for the pre-opening picture that’ll be sent out to friends and family first thing.

“Where’s the camera?” Clarke asks as she shifts a parcel a little to the left. “I want to know where it is so we don’t miss anything.”

“Relax, it’s by the tree. Come on, we’re pros at this now.”

Clarke nods. They kind of are. Now that they’re done, they have four years under their belts - they could do it blindfolded.

“We’d better go to bed if we’re gonna keep up with him tomorrow.”

Lexa nods, stifling a yawn, and they sneak up the stairs. They peek into the room opposite theirs, aglow with the rotating star system projected onto the ceiling. The little boy in the bed wrinkles his nose at the sound of the door, but doesn’t wake up.

“He looks so peaceful like that,” Clarke whispers. Isaac huffs in his sleep and rolls onto his side. He’s a good kid – stubborn like his moms, but kind and forgiving, and cute as a button. He’s only three and a half, but his future is bright. It’s a joy to watch him grow.

“We could have another?” Lexa suggests, pressing her lips into Clarke’s shoulder. Clarke would seriously be considering it if awful beard fibres weren’t tickling at her neck. She pushes Lexa away.

“We can talk about it when you don’t look so stupid. Why are you even still wearing that?”

Lexa shrugs.

“I’m committed.”

They step back into the hallway, hovering for a moment. Lexa leans in to kiss Clarke properly, and despite herself, Clarke lets her. Clarke digs her fingers into the cheap velour of the red jacket, reaching up to tug at the Velcro holding it closed - when the creak of the door stops her.

“Mommy?”

Shit. Clarke leaps back and drops to her knees to comfort her son out of reflex alone.

“Heeey monster, did you have a bad dream?”

If she doesn’t mention the elephant in the hallway, maybe Isaac won’t notice. He looks between her and Lexa. He’s only half awake and processing a little slowly.

“Santa?” he half gasps, half yawns. He stares up at Lexa, who swallows and nods mutely.

“Hey,” Clarke tries to bring her attention back to her, but it’s difficult when there’s a legend in front of his eyes. “You’re supposed to be asleep, remember?”

“Mommy, why were you kissing Santa?”

_Shit._

“Uh, well,” she looks to Lexa, whose eyes are wide with fear akin to the kind experienced by deer facing a hurtling big-rig. Clarke wastes precious moments trying to think and the words that come out of her mouth just… happen. “Remember when grandma went to Europe and she said that people there kiss all the time, just to say hello?”

Isaac nods.

“Well, this is like that.” Clarke leans closer to keep Isaac from staring too closely. “See, Santa is from Europe, and I was just saying bye to him. He has to go deliver presents to the other girls and boys now, don’t you Santa?”

Lexa nods emphatically, the pom-pom on her hat bouncing.

“Right,” she says in a gruff voice that might sound right to someone who has never been in the vicinity of an elderly human. “You should be in bed, young man. You want to be on the good list next year, don’t you?”

Clarke stares at her wife in disbelief for whatever that accent was supposed to be. Isaac seems to buy it though, and doesn’t fight it when she takes his hand and leads him back to bed. Lexa takes that as her cue to make a show of going back downstairs, making as much noise as possible.

“Do I really have to go back to bed, mommy? Did Santa bring my presents already?”

 “No honey, he was stopping by to make sure you weren’t awake. He’ll come back with your presents when you’re fast asleep. You’re still tired aren’t you sweetie?”

He must be, because he yawns and nods, rubbing at his eyes. Clarke breathes a sigh of relief – she’d expected a fight or at least a demand to look out the window for a glimpse of the sleigh and reindeer.

“See you in the morning, bud.”

Clarke leans in to press a kiss to sleep-mussed brown hair and tucks the covers around him.

“Mommy?”

Clarke winces.

“Yeah?”

“I thought Santa lives at the north pole.”

**_Shit_. **

“The north pole is in Europe.”

Isaac rolls over, already half asleep, and Clarke prays he didn’t hear that or that he’s tired enough to forget all about it. Experience tells her that she’ll have a million more questions to answer in the morning. She creeps into her room where she bumps into her wife, who’s halfway through getting changed.

“The north pole is in Europe?”

“Shut up.”

-

The bedroom door creaks open and Clarke tries not to groan in annoyance. She has a mouthful of hair, her arm’s dead and trapped under her wife. She’s facing away from the clock so she can’t immediately tell her son to go back to bed. Her body tells her it’s still too early to be awake, that she needs more sleep, but –

“Wake up mommy, it’s Christmas!”

Little feet hurry across the hardwood floor and clumsy limbs climb up onto the bed. Clarke gets elbowed and kneed and toed until Isaac has situated himself firmly between her and Lexa. She gets a sloppy kiss on the cheek as she blinks blearily and turns her head to check the time. 5:45 – he’s restrained himself. Sweet, merciful Lexa scoops Isaac up into her lap to give Clarke a moment to wake up properly. It’s for the good of them all.

“Mommy, did you see Santa las night? He was here! Did he come back with my presents?”

“I don’t know, he might have!”

Going from sleep to fully alert in seconds has always been one of Lexa’s skills. It’s come in handy since they became parents. Clarke has never been, and never will be a morning person, but there’s no point in even trying to get Isaac to go back to bed at this point.

“Can we go see? Please?”

It’s hard to say no to his wide, pleading eyes and moments later they’re bundling warm sweaters over pyjama shirts and pulling on thick socks. Isaac grabs his moms – a hand for each – and they clamber down the stairs in an awkward (but together) manner. By the time they reach the bottom, he’s too excited to hold back and breaks free to dash into the living room. He freezes in the doorframe and gapes. Clarke wishes they hadn’t left the camera by the tree – it’d make a great picture.

“He came back!” Isaac squeals.

Before either Clarke or Lexa can speak, he all but leaps at the presents and tries to tear at the paper of the first gift he comes to.

“Wait a minute!” Lexa laughs as he scrabbles his fingernails along the tape. “That might not be for you, and Grandma and Grandpa are going to want a picture of you with what Santa brought.”

One awkward photo later, the three of them settle down by the tree and set about reading through the labels to distribute the gifts. Isaac’s still learning letters, but he recognises what is and isn’t his own name and tries to sound out a few of the others. His patience only lasts so long, so soon Clarke is the one reading out names and passing things along to be opened.

Isaac is thrilled to be the proud owner of a mountain of new toys, clothes and books, and declares that he’ll be the best tricyclist ever by the end of the day – before he’s distracted by a keyboard that has an awful auto-play function that immediately makes both parents disown the family friend that bought him it. On the third playing of ‘Old MacDonald’ Lexa whispers something to him, and he all but throws the thing to one side and dives under the tree. He emerges with a sticky-taped muddle of poster-painted paper that doesn’t entirely cover the cardboard beneath.

“Merry Christmas mommy,” he says as he presents it to Clarke.

The label dandles from a piece of string and when she flips it, she wells up a little. The shaky handwriting is clearly Isaac’s and it’s the first gift she’s ever had like that. Just a few months ago at her birthday he’d only been able to scribble an approximation of his name at the bottom, but now it’s a lot closer, backwards ‘s’ and all. She tugs it off and slips it into her pocket. Lexa grins knowingly as she watches on. Clarke unwraps the box carefully and finds it plain with no indication of what’s inside.

“I picked it!” Isaac cries proudly as she lifts the top flap to reveal the most hideous porcelain gorilla she’s ever seen. It’s strangely lifelike and yet not at all with its beady-eyed stare and overdone glaze. It’s scaling a skyscraper so maybe it’s supposed to be Kong? She isn’t sure, but it has a furry baby tucked into the crook of one elbow. She can almost see why he chose it. Lexa’s biting her lip and trying not to laugh. “’Cuz you always call me monster!”

“Honey it’s beautiful!” she lies, because the hope and pride in his eyes are so earnest. “Where did you get this?”

Her wife and son start to tell her about how they’d gone to an antique market one afternoon while she’d been at work so they could pick out the best present in the world for the best mom in the world – Isaac interjects there because there are _two_ best moms in the world.

“Mommy said we should keep looking and made me walk _forever_ , but I knew you’d like it!”

“’Forever’ was another half hour, but he made up his mind,” Lexa explains with an eyeroll. “He loved the gorilla.”

Clarke nods and smiles. The thing is horrific, but the intent is pure. She leans down to kiss her son’s cheek and he wraps his arms tight around her neck to steal a warm hug at the same time.

“Thank you, monster. I’ll find somewhere good to put it.”

Clarke gets her revenge when Lexa unwraps a hand-painted mug and a gurning face in a popsicle stick frame. She spies a tear in the corner of her eye and manages to snap proof with her phone before Lexa notices. By the end of the day, there are going to be a lot of new pictures vying for a place on their already full walls. This one will be going on her desk.

When the gifts begin to dwindle and the trash bag of paper is full, Lexa’s phone buzzes.

“Your parents are on their way,” she relays.

“How long?”

Lexa taps the screen a few times and waits. A few moments later it lights up again.

“They’ve already been driving for twenty minutes.”

“So, any second.”

“Yup.”

They always do this. Her dad says the unannounced visits are revenge for all the crap she got up to when she was younger, but really, they’re always welcome. It’s easier to let him think he’s being annoying with that than risk the truly embarrassing stories he could tell. The doorbell rings and Clarke rolls her eyes. They have a key, but they never use it.

The bell rings four more times as she goes to answer it and that’s enough to let Isaac know who’s there. His socks skid on the hardwood of the hallway and he insists on opening the door. Turning the handle is a little difficult, but he manages it on his tip-toes.  

“Grandpa!” he squeals, when the door swings open. He’s immediately scooped up and tossed into the air.

“Hi mom, hi dad.”

A few greetings and kisses later, Clarke’s parents toe off their shoes and hang up their coats and are dragged into the living room by their excited grandchild, who starts telling them all about his Christmas day so far. They’re pressed into the couch as Isaac bumbles through waking up and trying to stay in bed because it was still dark and dark is when he’s supposed to be asleep, but he was just so excited because he saw Santa last night and knew he’d come back.

“Oh, you saw Santa?” Clarke’s mom asks, eyebrows high and smile wide. Lexa reddens. Isaac nods enthusiastically and the tale shifts to the previous night, from when Lexa had left before dinner and the turkey dinosaurs they ate, to the stories he made up in the bath, and onwards to bed and waking up to meet a legend. He frowns when it comes to recanting that particular moment.

“Do people in Europe kiss each other hello?” he asks uncertainly. Clarke can see her parents trying not to laugh, her dad’s lip wobbling from the effort.

“They do in some places, yes.”

Isaac leans up to whisper something in his grandma’s ear. She jolts in amusement.

“You’ll have to ask your mommy about that,” she says.

Isaac looks between his moms and nods far too seriously for his age. He jumps down from his grandpa’s lap and hurries over to Lexa.

“Is it okay that mommy kissed Santa?”

Clarke’s parents crease up on the couch as Lexa sputters something about it being fine, that other people’s cultures should always be respected. Clarke sighs, head in her hands. They’re never going to live this down.


	2. Inevitable

Friday had finally arrived, and Lexa couldn’t be more pleased. The week had dragged, an endless monotony of paperwork, deadlines and work-related drudgery. It’d been an overtime every day ordeal that had seen her creeping home in the middle of the night, well past her son’s bedtime when even her wife had given up waiting and gone to bed alone. It was over now though, and thank god for that. Relieved it was finally her weekend off, she set her car in gear and rolled from the parking lot into the usual evening traffic. The drive home was the same as it always was, possible to manage mostly on autopilot and ripe for daydreaming about what she’d do when she finally got home.

First, she’d shed any and all reminder of work and change into something more comfortable – maybe sweats, or maybe she’d skip tat and go for the inevitable pair of pyjamas and comfy slippers. Maybe she’d stoke up the fireplace for the evening and find a relaxing playlist to stream over the living room speakers, or she might just find an old movie to ignore as background noise. Either way, she’d lie back on the couch and sink into the cushions. Maybe Clarke would let her rest her head in her lap, or she might lie next to her – it wouldn’t matter so long as she was there too – and they’d drift off into a well-deserved nap. Cosy couch cuddles were just what the doctor ordered – the doctor being a stressed 32-year-old who was absolutely not a doctor and grossly unqualified to prescribe such a thing. Mostly, she just wanted to hold her wife in her arms.

Before she knew it, Lexa was pulling into the paved driveway in front of her home and parking her sedan next to her wife’s. With a spring in her step, she grabbed her bag from the passenger seat and headed for the door – only to have a small body collide with her legs as soon as she turned the handle and pushed it open. Lexa looked down to see a chocolate smeared face beaming up at her.

“Mommy you’re home!” Isaac puckered up for a sticky kiss that had Lexa wiping her cheek clean afterwards.

“Hey buddy! How was your day?”

Isaac immediately launched into a story about his time at day-care, where he’d made the biggest sandcastle _ever_ with Willow and got to feed the rabbits while the little kids had naptime. Lexa listened intently while she swapped her heeled boots for her beloved fluffy slippers and tossed her coat on a hook in the closet. When she was done, Isaac fell quiet, his eyes pleading. Lexa couldn’t deny him.

“Alright, hop on.”

Shrieking with glee, Isaac grabbed bodily onto Lexa’s leg, wrapping his arms and legs tightly and clutching on like a limpet while she trudged through the hallway into the living room. He’d be too big for it soon, but it was a daily ritual they’d had since he was still in diapers. It was one of the things Lexa wanted to hold onto, at least for a little while longer.

“Hey baby,” she said as she dropped onto the couch next to Clarke, leaning across to deliver a quick kiss. “I found this weird animal by the door again, did you let it in?” Clarke shook her head as Lexa extended her leg to show off Isaac, still clinging on tightly.

“No, I don’t know where it keeps coming from. Should I call animal control?”

“Please.”

With a determined nod, Clarke tapped on the blank screen of her phone and held it up to her ear. Isaac giggled as she talked to nobody on the other end of the line.

“Hi, yeah, it’s Mrs Griffin-Woods again. Yes, that weird animal is back in my house again and it’s got my wife’s leg.” Clarke stayed silent for a moment to allow the imaginary person to speak then gasped, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. “ _Cut her leg off?_ I don’t know, that’d make a really big mess on my carpet and I just vacuumed. Is there really nothing else we can try? Oh! Yes, that sounds like a good idea, we’ll try that. Thank you.”

Lexa and Isaac waited as Clarke placed her phone on the coffee table and stood up before them, hands on her hips.

“There’s only one thing for it,” she said with a solemn shake of her head. “I’m sorry it’s come to this.”

“Do what you have to do.” Lexa sniffed dramatically, draping an arm over her eyes. Clarke nodded firmly and breathed deeply, then launched her attack, quick fingers fluttering over Isaac’s ribs and making him squeak and lose his grip. They rolled onto the floor while Lexa grinned down from her seat in amusement. Clarke knew all of Isaac’s most ticklish spots and just how to get to them.

“Mommy, help!” Isaac cried to Lexa between shrieks of laughter, as though she weren’t the one being saved from him. Still, it was her motherly duty to help, so she joined the fray regardless. Soon all three of them were a squealing bundle of flailing limbs and lightning fast fingers. It wasn’t long before Isaac begged for the assault to stop and they tumbled apart, all toothy grins and heaving chests from laughing too much. As they dusted themselves off, Clarke glanced at the clock on the back wall and gave one last playful prod to Isaac’s belly.

“Where’s your bag? Grandma will be here to pick you up soon.”

“Can I take toys with me? I want to play dinosaurs with Grandpa.”

“You can take _two_ dinosaurs with you, okay?” Clarke held up as many fingers to illustrate her point.

“But-,” a wobbly bottom lip appeared, but Lexa was quick to back Clarke up and stop a brewing tantrum.

“Two. Go on, pick them and bring them here.”

As their little boy scampered off to his room to find more toys than he was allowed, Clarke patted Lexa’s knee and used it to push herself up.

“So what’s he plan for tonight?” she asked, since they usually had dinner reservations or an evening out planed on their monthly mandated weekend of no responsibility.

“I’m thinking we stay home and cuddle on the couch.”

“Oh, thank god.” Clarke looked instantly relieved at the prospect. “I mean, not that I don’t enjoy going out, but… I missed you and we both need a night off.”

“I now, I’m sorry,” Lexa said, taking Clarke’s hand in her own and giving it a quick squeeze. “I’ll make it up to you. Once your mom’s gone with Isaac, go change into something comfortable and I’ll nuke some dinner in the microwave. We can watch a movie and cuddle up. Just the two of us in unflattering PJs for the night.”

“Mm, I love it when you talk dirty,” Clarke husked, wrinkling her nose. Lexa flicked it affectionately and leaned in to steal a kiss. A heavy thump and the sound of tumbling plastic from upstairs interrupted the moment, letting the two of them know that someone should probably go supervise their son before he came back from his room with every toy he owned.

“Hold that thought,” Lexa said, holding up both hands and making for the stairs. Just as her slippered foot met the bottom step, the doorbell rang.

 “You get the door, I’ll handle the kid,” Clarke said as she pushed past with a gentle pat on the shoulder.

“They’re your parents, Clarke.”

“Yeah, your in-laws, which means you have to be nice to them.”

“Doesn’t it mean the opposite of that?”

“Just get the door, babe.”

Since Clarke was already halfway up the stairs and still going, there wasn’t much point in arguing. Lexa shook her head and on the other side of the door, found Abby Griffin, smiling brightly, and Jake Griffin, partially obscured by a cardboard box of… something. Lexa didn’t dare ask and just invited the two of them inside to sit down.”

“They’ll be down in a minute. Toy emergency,” she explained to the two of them as they made themselves comfortable on the couch. Jake leaned forward to arrange his cardboard box on the coffee table and flipped the top flaps down.

 “Don’t worry about it,” Abby said, watching her husband rifle through the box’s contents.

“We’re putting some things in storage, so since we were coming over anyway, we figured we’d see if Clarke wants any of this before we do,” Jake explained excitedly. “Old photo albums we have digital copies of, y’know? A few from her school days.”

“So… you really brought them here to show me so you can embarrass her?”

“Exactly! See, sharp as a tack.” Jake looked between his exasperated wife and daughter-in-law, glad that they were all on the same page. He grabbed the photo album at the top of the box and turned the cover to reveal a full page photograph of a baby that looked remarkably like Isaac had at that age – although he’d never been made to wear such a frilly bonnet.

“A gift from my mom,” Abby said with a grimace. Lexa nodded, wondering if they should maybe wait for Clarke before delving into embarrassing childhood pictures. It didn’t matter too much though – they were barely into toddlerhood by the time Clarke resurfaced with Isaac in tow, a Thomas the Tank Engine backpack over his shoulders and a diplodocus in one hand, gallimimus in the other. Upon seeing his grandparents, the little boy launched full speed into the small space between them and demanded hugs.

“Tell me that’s not what I think it is,” Clarke said as she took the scene in, box of memories and all.

“No, no, we’re just putting some things in storage and thought you might want to keep -,”

If her expression was anything to go by, Clarke did _not_ want to keep any of the photographs preserved in the albums. If anything, the intensity of her glare was more likely to set them alight in their plastic sleeves. Fortunately for everyone else’s amusement though, Isaac had wriggled himself around so he sat between his grandparents with the album on his lap for a better look.

“Look at the baby!” he said in delight, pointing at a picture of his mother chewing on a rubber duck.

“These are pictures of your mom when she was little,” Jake said animatedly, turning the pages a little quicker to find an image that was a little less baby-fat and a little more recognisable. He stopped flipping on an image of a young Clarke – a couple of years older than Isaac was, with a set of unmistakable Mickey Mouse ears perched atop her head and the wide, enthralled grin of all kids posing at Disneyworld plastered on her face.

“Can you believe your mom was ever that young?” Abby asked, and Isaac shook his head quickly.

“This must have been hundreds of years ago!”

“Maybe not _hundreds_ -,” Clarke started, but didn’t finish., because they’d flipped to another page, one of young-Clarke bedecked in a white summer dress before the parade.

“Wow, you were really cute, Mommy!” Isaac exclaimed, picking up the album and bringing it closer to his face. He poked a stubby finger at the picture and stared up at Lexa. “You were really pretty too!”

“Oh, no, we don’t have any pictures of me when I was that age. They’re all at Gran and Grandpop’s house. We might see those another day,” Lexa said, meaning never.

Isaac looked between his parents and the picture and frowned in a way that was far too serious for his years. He tapped the picture hard and showed his Grandma, who blinked and squinted, then nudged her husband. Jake plucked the picture from its sleeve and held it up.

“Did you ever go to Disney as a kid?” Abby asked Lexa as Jake broke into laughter.

“Yeah. We went with my aunt and uncle and their kids one year.”

“When was that? ’94?”

“Maybe?”

Clarke snatched the picture from her dad’s outstretched hand and brought it over to the light. It took a little squinting, but there, in the crowd of other excited kids, was the profile of a girl who looked a lot like an eight-year-old Lexa.

“No way,” Clarke breathed. Lexa leaned in closer, her mouth falling slack as she tried to process.

“Huh,” she said quietly. “I mean, it _could_ be? I don’t…”

There was an easy way to find out, Lexa realised. Her tablet lay on the table, and on there she had access to her dad’s carefully curated online photo collection. He’d dutifully scanned and logged the dates of all their old albums a while back, so checking to see if they matched up wouldn’t be a problem. ’94, summer…

“No way,” Clarke said again, swatting Lexa’s hand out of the way as she found that yes, their Disney trip _had_ been that year. Clarke flicked through the images one by one until she found one of Lexa and her cousins all gurning at the camera as they enjoyed the parade. “Holy sugar.”

There, in the background, was a profile shot of a little blonde girl in a flowery white dress and a pair of Mickey Mouse ears. A little girl who, when comparing the printed picture, was unmistakably, undeniably Clarke.

“What the fudge?” Lexa breathed.

“What are the chances?” Abby said, nosing her way closer. “Get your dad to print that off, I want a copy.

“Uh, get in line,” Clarke murmured, still looking between the two pictures and trying to put the two together. “Is this some kind of destiny type thing? Were we inevitable?”

Lexa looked at her perplexed wife, and her son who’d become bored with the album and was roaming his dinosaurs across the arm of the couch, and her annoying but well-meaning in-laws who were babbling about how amazing the pictures were, and decided that if it was inevitability or destiny or coincidence that brought them together, it didn’t matter all that much. She was just grateful that whatever force had brought them all together _had._


	3. Willow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Octavia and Lincoln are the proud parents of a brand new baby girl - but they're exhausted. Clarke and Lexa are kind enough to take her off their hands for a night so they can rest. Set before Clarke and Lexa are parents themselves.

When Clarke saunters into the kitchen with a bouquet of red carnations in hand, Lexa is pleasantly surprised but also immediately worried. It’s not their anniversary for another month and as far as she knows there’s no need for apology flowers, so she’s utterly perplexed as to why she’s being presented with them.

 “What’s the occasion?” she asks, hoping that she hasn’t forgotten some other important date.

 “Don’t you know?”

 “Should I?”

 Clarke nods very seriously and presses the flowers into Lexa’s hands. She tuts and rolls her eyes as though it’s obvious. Lexa lifts the bouquet to her nose to take in the sweet, subtle scent. Carnations are one of her favourite flowers, as Clarke is well aware.

 “It’s ‘My Wife is Beautiful and Amazing and she Deserves Something Almost as Pretty as Her’ Day.”

 “Oh. There wasn’t a google doodle for it, so I didn’t know.”

 “It’s very important to me,” Clarke says, her eyebrows rising as she begins her explanation. “It falls on every day that I see carnations, because they remind me of _someone’s_ gorgeous bouquet on our wedding day. And then, y’know, I get all wistful and shit, so I figure I better buy some before I start crying at the gas station and I have to explain to the poor attendant that no, I’m fine, I just love my wife a lot.”

 “I don’t know what to say, Clarke. That’s kinda gay.”

 “Shut up and put them in a vase.” Clarke gives a dismissive wave of her hand as though it’s nothing, but Lexa dearly appreciates the little romantic gestures that she peppers into their lives.

 “Thank you for my gas station flowers,” Lexa says, giving her wife a swift kiss on the cheek. “I love them.”

 “You better,” Clarke replies with a smirk. “They weren’t even on sale.”

 “Wow, you really do love me!”

Clarke gives Lexa a playful poke in the side as she places the bouquet on the counter. There’s a crystal vase somewhere that’ll work with the ruffled petals, and Lexa busies herself in its pursuit while Clarke fetches the groceries from her car. She returns just as Lexa empties a sachet of plant food into some water. The two of them move easily around each other, comfortable and well used to one another’s movements after eight years together - seven of those as a couple, six of those in the same house, and four as a married couple.

 “So, other than nearly crying at the gas station, how was your day?” Lexa asks as two reusable bags are dumped on the countertop, overflowing with goodies. Clarke starts decanting them, shaking a pack of her favourite popcorn in delight before it goes in the cupboard.

 “It was alright. No earth-shattering disasters.”

 “But…?”

 “No buts. Work was fine and the grocery store was actually pretty quiet. There were a couple of old ladies at the meat counter about to throw down over a ham shank but that was just entertaining.”

 Lexa stops snipping stems and turns to watch her wife flit from the bags to the cupboards and back, to the refrigerator, to the freezer, to the fruit bowl. There’s a tense energy in her steps, quick and precise. Whatever Clarke’s thinking about, it’s more than 'nothing’. Lexa puts her scissors down and makes her way over to help with the groceries.

“Don’t worry about it,” Clarke says with a shoo-ing motion as she dips her hand into one of the bags. “I’m almost done.”

“Clarke, is there something you want to tell me?” Lexa asks as she examines the simple white box of sterilising powder that comes out. A newborn sleeps on its front, nestled comfortably in a pale yellow blanket. Lexa peers into the bottom of the bag and finds a tiny onesie and a pack of pacifiers. Clarke laughs nervously and snatches the box of powder away.

“I know we always said that the likelihood of getting each other pregnant was slim-”

“The words ‘physically impossible’ come to mind, yes.”

“Yeah, but all the practice paid off and I guess it worked out in the end.” Lexa raises a sceptical eyebrow and Clarke shoves her shoulder at the absurdity. “I just want to be prepared when Octavia brings the munchkin over later, doofus.”

“Baby, you know they’re going to bring this stuff with them.” 

Yeah, but just in case. And check this,” Clarke holds the onesie against her chest. “The ducks are adorable, right?”

“I don’t think it’ll fit you, but yes, they’re cute.” Lexa laughs as her ridiculous wife twirls anyway, catching her eye when she stops. “Are you still worried?”

It’s been a couple of days since they’d agreed to take their exhausted friends’ baby for the night, and Clarke’s been a mess of nerves ever since. As soon as she’d smiled into the phone receiver and said that yes, they’d be happy to help out, Lexa had seen the look in Clarke’s eye and knew what was in store. She’d seen panic and desperation, and a deep desire to get out of it.

“We don’t know the first thing about babies,” Clarke says now, not meeting Lexa’s gaze. She arranges her purchases into a small pile that they probably won’t need. “Look, if we’re doing this, I just want to be ready for anything.”

“There’s no ‘if’ about it, they’re already on their way over. It’s one night and they really need the break.”

“I know, but what if something goes wrong?”

 Lexa takes Clarke’s hand and holds it between both of her own. She nods at the very long list of phone numbers held to the refrigerator door with a novelty magnet shaped as a voluptuous pair of breasts. 

“Then we have an entire phone directory’s worth of people to call for backup. And besides, why did Octavia say she picked us for this?”

“Because her brother lives two hours away and she doesn’t want to drive that far?”

“Because we’re the most responsible people she knows.”

“She never said that.”

“You had her on speaker babe, she did.”

“Okay, she did, but-”

“But nothing. We’re going to be great. Babies this age are like clockwork, they have a schedule and we just have to follow it. See, I have us set up for shifts.” Lexa points at the sheet stuck up next to the phone numbers. “We have feeds every three hours. I’ll take 6pm when they drop her off. You get 9pm, I’ll do 12 and so on.”

Clarke takes it all in and frowns. “What if I want to go first?”

“Then you have to get up for the 6am feed, and we both know that 6am Clarke is not meant for children.”

“And 3am Clarke is?”

“She’s a completely different beast. She’s the good kind of sloppy, the one that won’t yell at you for breathing in the wrong way.” Clarke has the self-awareness to nod sagely in agreement. She steps towards the schedule to examine it more closely.

“You really thought this through, didn’t you?”

“You know me, I plan.”

A wide grin finds its way to Clarke’s face, the kind of grin that Lexa knows all too well. It usually means she’s found a Christmas present she wasn’t supposed to, or ‘accidentally’ turned the TV to a crappy, inaccurate police procedural while Lexa was in the bathroom. It’s not a grin that ever means anything good. She advances on Lexa, backing her up until her backside hits the counter behind her.

“You only plan like this when you’re nervous. You’re just as scared as I am.”

The confident, self-assured Lexa from moments ago dwindles a little, her voice cracking like an unsure teenager when she speaks. “No, I’m completely in control of my faculties.”

“You broke out a spreadsheet, Lexa. Admit it, you’re shitting bricks.”

“We’ll be fine!” The insistence this time sounds more like a reminder for herself than anyone else.

“She’s a month-old premature baby, Lexa, how the fuck are we going to do this?”

The doorbell rings, signalling their doom. The two women stand frozen for a moment, staring at one another in fear. There’s an impatient knock, and Lexa tries to compose herself as quickly as humanly possible.

“We’ll do it the same way we do everything. With poise and grace.” She nods firmly, finitely, and makes for the door. She stumbles on Clarke’s discarded sandals and glares back at her wife, who can’t help but laugh.

“We’ll be okay,” Clarke says, and deep down, Lexa knows that it’s true.

The door swings open to reveal Octavia and Lincoln on the porch, both looking dishevelled. Dark sunglasses hide Octavia’s eyes and beneath the strap of a stuffed diaper bag, her shirt is stained with what might be vomit. Lincoln is no better - unshaven and dressed in what look to be yesterday’s clothes, he doesn’t hide his fatigue. On his arm hangs a car seat and bundled up in it is the cause of their exhaustion - a peacefully sleeping baby girl named Willow. As though her earlier panic meant nothing, Clarke rushes forward to take in the tiny face and ‘aww’ quietly to herself. The parents share a look, one that says they’re all too familiar with being ignored in favour of their newborn.

“Come in,” Lexa says, pulling her wife back inside so their guests have some room to breathe. They head into the living room, where the guests take the couch and Clarke and Lexa take to the armchair and its arm respectively.

“Sorry we’re a little late,” Lincoln offers. “Somebody was grumpy when she woke up from her nap.”

Octavia shrugs as she removes her sunglasses, flipping the legs closed with a snap. “Not my fault I was up all night.”

“It’s fine,” Lexa says a little too loudly. She winces at the sound of her own voice, but the baby sleeps on.

“Don’t worry about it.” Octavia unburdens herself of the diaper bag, setting it on the pristine oak coffee table. She sinks into the cushions and looks ready to sleep for a week.

“So how is parenthood treating you?” Clarke asks as though the scene of pure exhaustion isn’t explanation enough.

“It’s… amazing.” Lincoln smiles dopily and surveys his sleeping daughter. He wears the same look of adoration that until recently was reserved for Octavia alone.

“Tiring but amazing,” Octavia agrees. She launches into a no-holds barred tale of the first month of Willow’s life, from the first weird poop to the warm snuggles and endless feeds. She’s told it before, every time they’ve seen each other, but it doesn’t get old. Just watching the couple on the cough gaze fondly at their child stirs a certain amount of pride in Lexa - that she and Clarke are considered close enough to be a part of it.

The baby stirs under the scrutiny of so many adults, scrunching her face and chewing gummily on nothing. She opens her eyes slowly and yawns wide enough to elicit a peep of delight from Clarke. Lincoln unsnaps the car-seat buckles and draws Willow into his arms. She looks tiny in his hands, despite all that she’s grown. “Thanks for taking her for the night,” he says. “It’s going to be hard to be away from her.”

“Of course.”

Lincoln kisses the wisps on dark hair on the crown of his daughter’s head and holds her out to Lexa, who takes her and holds her reverently close. Lexa holds her breath, silently praying that her touch isn’t rejected. Clarke smiles knowingly and nudges her knee. Octavia and Lincoln begin to unpack the diaper bag to explain its contents, but Lexa isn’t really listening. She watches as Octavia demonstrates the sterilising device, counts the pre-pumped bottles of milk and wonders just how on earth an actual person can fit in clothes so small. The words though, are little more than a buzz in her ear. There’s a baby in her arms, and that’s much more important.

“Lexa?”

Clarke nudges Lexa’s knee again, this time more urgently. Lexa looks up and finds everyone staring at her in confusion.

“What?”

“Just take your shirt off,” Lincoln says as though that explains everything. Lexa recoils in confusion and offense.

“Skin-to-skin contact,” Octavia clarifies. “It helps her settle if she’s fighting sleep.”

“Oh, right. Of course.” Lexa feels herself turning red. Mercifully nobody teases her and she makes a better effort to listen to the advice that she’ll no doubt need.

Soon, the guests stand from the couch and prepare to say their goodbyes. It’s their first time away from their child, so they’re reluctant to leave. Octavia hovers and Lincoln looks on wistfully so it takes a full half hour before they’re even in the hallway and another ten before they’re at the door.

“Don’t worry,” Clarke says, leaning on the doorframe. “We have everything under control. If anything goes wrong,we’ll call straight away. I promise everything will be fine.”

Octavia has to physically drag Lincoln to the car. As the headlights come on, Clarke takes Willow’s tiny arm and waves it gently to-and-fro in farewell. Lexa chuckles and kicks the door closed when their friends’ car makes the turn onto the main road and rumbles out of sight.

“Well,” Clarke says to the baby in an excited, high-pitched voice. “We’re going to have fun, aren’t we?”

 -

There’s peace in the house for at least five minutes. Clarke is happy to coo at Willow while Lexa  finishes arranging her carnations, but appears when she’s cleaning up, holding the poor girl at arm’s length, eyes wide with terror. Willow squirms, her face screwed up in displeasure.

“Lexa, help, she stinks.”

“Did you check her diaper?” Lexa shakes the excess water from her hands and dries them on a towel. Clarke shakes her head violently, and the baby’s face takes a rapid turn from upset to furious.

“That’s your job,” Clarke says quickly, aware that any second Willow will start crying.

“I don’t remember agreeing to that.”

“It’s technically your shift?” Clarke jerks her head in the direction of the chart on the fridge - the chart that Lexa made herself.

“Oh, uh…”

Suddenly there’s an unhappy baby in her arms and she isn’t quite sure what to do. Clarke flees the room and for a brief moment, Lexa thinks she’s been abandoned to deal with the stench and its implication on her own. Willow’s lip quivers and she lets out a wail, and Clarke resurfaces with a handful of diapers and a pack of wipes.

“We can figure this out together. It can’t be that hard, right?”

It shouldn’t be, but Willow chooses that moment to start screaming as loud as her young lungs will let her. Internally, Lexa screams with her but she’s never been one to let fear of the unknown hold her back. She grabs a folded towel fresh from the laundry with her spare hand and sets it on the counter, then lies the baby on her back. Willow wails and kicks out in unhappiness, even less impressed when fingers undo the clips of her spotted onesie.

“Oh fuck, what are they feeding you, kid?” Clarke gasps as the diaper tabs are tugged and the unholy mess within is unleashed. She grabs the front of her shirt and hoists it up over her face so the collar lies on the bridge of her nose as a makeshift mask. Still, she tags herself in and goes for the wipe, squinting her way through the cleaning up while Lexa makes a grab for the flailing legs that keep getting in the way. As Lexa lifts, the dirty diaper is swept away and the new one tucked up and under. Miraculously, it only takes two attempts to fasten.

Far more pleased than she should be, Lexa hoists Willow to her shoulder and rubs her back in the soothing manner that Octavia demonstrated a few hours ago. The screaming in her ear doesn’t cease, but the proud smile on Clarke’s face is all she needs to keep trying.

As the night wears on, it becomes clear why Octavia and Lincoln need their night off - Willow is a handful. She’s been fed, burped, held and cuddled, but she continues to gripe and squirm. Perhaps it’s because neither of the women doing those things are her parents, or perhaps it’s because everything about the house is different to the one she’s used to, Lexa isn’t sure. Maybe she inherited her mom’s stubborn streak.

“Here, let me try,” Clarke says, as though she hasn’t already tried multiple times. Lexa hands the baby over anyway, her ears grateful for the respite if nothing else. Clarke holds Willow upright, head on her shoulder. She walks around the room, shushing gently as she goes. There’s a jiggle in the rhythm of her step that makes her gait a little strange, but the crying quiets to a grumble and then a whimper, and soon to the simple whisper of baby breath.

Clarke winks at Lexa, pleased to have at last found something effective against Willow’s iron will. She keeps going, the bounce in her step gaining an almost dance-like quality that’s mesmerising to watch. Lexa takes it all in from her place on the couch, following the gentle sway with an appreciative gaze.

“I could have done that,” she murmurs as Clarke lowers the baby into the car-seat for some much needed sleep. Clarke sticks her tongue out playfully and creeps the couple of steps to collapse into the cushions next to her.

“I can’t believe how much fight she has in her.” Lexa raises a sceptical brow and Clarke shrugs. “Alright, I guess I can. It’s in the blood.”

“This kid’s a hellion.”

 -

The next morning, lexa wakes up to acres of space in her bed. She has the room to stretch her arms and legs out in any which-way she chooses and it doesn’t feel right. These days, comfort is the familiarity of a heavy arm draped across her body, steady breathing at her neck and the sticky-too-hotness of Clarke’s skin on hers. Her legs are usually tangles up with another pair, bruised from an accidental kneeing or two. Now though, she’s on her own and the reason eludes her. There’s no light or noise coming from the attached ensuite, so Clarke isn’t there either. The harsh green glow of the bedside clock declares that it’s quarter to six - far too early for Clarke to be up and wandering about.

Dragging herself up, Lexa steps into the bathroom to splash some cold water on her face. Refreshed, the cotton begins to clear from her brain and the events of the early morning begin to resurface. She recalls collapsing into bed at 1am after Willow’s midnight feed and subsequent refusal to sleep, and also that Clarke definitely did get up at three for the next one. Has it all gone smoothly?  Had she come back to bed after that. Lexa can’t remember that far, she must have been too deeply asleep. She heads back to the bedroom in search of socks, and the clock informs her that five minutes have passed and it’s almost her turn with the baby.

Quickly and quietly, Lexa makes her way downstairs. Yellow light seeps from beneath the door to the living room, so that answers the question of Clarke’s whereabouts. Lowering the handle, Lexa flinches when the hinges squeak. Inside, the lights are dimmed to their lowest setting, casting the whole room in a warm golden glow that seems only fitting given the sight on the couch.

Head propped up on the arm, Clarke lies horizontally across the cushions, soundly asleep. Her sleeveless shirt is draped over the back, leaving her in just her pyjama shorts. Upon her bare chest, Willow is in the same state of restfulness, utterly oblivious to the world beyond her pacifier. Clarke’s arms cradle her instinctively, safely. Lexa has a sudden urge to run and fetch her phone from upstairs so she can capture the moment, but settles for a few more seconds of simple appreciation before she tears herself away to the kitchen.

Once a bottle is warming in a jug of water, Lexa returns and waits for it to be ready. A flashing notification light on the table catches her eye, and she manages to snap a picture of her sleeping wife with Clarke’s phone before Willow starts to grouse her way to wakefulness. It takes a moment and a lot of determination to extract her without disturbing Clarke, but soon the two of them settle into the armchair. After a quick check of both diaper and bottle temperature, Willow is contentedly suckling away at her fresh bottle and Lexa has only to hold it at the proper angle for her.

It’s easy to get lost in the baby’s eyes. They stare up with such trust and love that Lexa isn’t sure what to do with it all. A whole hand wraps around her little finger, the grip strong, and it hits her that Willow is not just a baby, but a person in her own right, with her own likes and dislikes. She likes to be held, but only permits to being on her back when being fed. Judging by the scene Lexa walked in on, she likes Clarke’s boobs too, but Lexa can hardly blame her for that since she’s a fan herself.

Over on the couch, Clarke stirs. It’s a grunt of dissatisfaction at first, a stretching of a stiff neck due to sleeping at a peculiar angle. A second later she stares down at her chest in confusion and then panic. She jolts upright, softens when Lexa smiles over at her. She falls back into place with a sigh of relief and a sheepish expression.

“I take it you two had a fun night,” Lexa nods at the shirt still on the back of the couch. Clarke shakes her head then shrugs it on.

“She wouldn’t settle, so I remembered what Lincoln said about skin-to-skin.”

“It worked?”

“Not at all, but I guess she wore down eventually.”

Lexa huffs a laugh and looks back to Willow, whose eyes have started to drift closed again. She’s aware that Clarke is still watching them, with the same fondness that she herself had when she found the two of them in earlier. This version of 6am Clarke is the gentles that she’s ever known, despite the twist of conflict in her expression.

“What’s up?” Lexa asks, moving the bottle a little to encourage Willow to finish her meal before she falls back to sleep.

“I… think I want one.”

The words take a few moments to register in Lexa’s mind, but when they do, they hit her hard in the chest. Clarke looks almost surprised that she spoke out loud, but the thought is in the open now and can’t be taken back.

“You want to start a family?” Lexa asks. “This morning… yesterday, whatever. You didn’t even want to babysit, let alone-”

“I know, but… doing it, seeing how much Linc and Octavia are enjoying being parents. Seeing you with her. Don’t you think it’d be amazing to experience?”

Lexa swallows, unsure what to say. “I… I don’t know. I never really thought about it. Well, I mean, I _thought_ about it, but I thought it’d be when we were like forty or something.”

“I’m not saying we go out and pick a crib today, but… think about it? Please?”

Lexa looks down at the baby in her arms, then back to Clarke, wondering what it’d feel like if she were theirs. “I will.”

 -

Clarke has the radio tuned to her favourite pop-rock station, the volume up high so she can shout along to the lyrics and still hear the melodies. Lexa can see through the window that she’s doing the dishes that they avoided after dinner last night. She’s elbow deep in suds but still manages to shuffle her feet in time to the beat, barely missing a beat. The DJ cuts in with some bullishit chatter about the band before the track is finished and Clarke flicks water at his disembodied voice. She’d clearly been enjoying herself before he spoke.

Lexa chuckles and lets herself in. Clarke jolts at the sound - with the music up so loud, she must have missed the car pulling up the driveway. There’s a jingle of keys as she places them on the hook, a welcome home peck on the cheek, and all is well.

“Sorry I’m late, I had to stop off for gas.”

“You know you can let it go below a quarter tank, right?” Clarke asks.

“Yeah, but I like to have reserves, just in case.”

Clarke shakes her head in amused exasperation - it’s a conversation they’ve had dozens of times. Lexa’s preparedness has saved their asses on more than one occasion though, so she’s not about to change. Whatever Clarke’s about to say, she loses her train of thought when she spots that Lexa’s arms are behind her back.

“Oh god, please tell me you didn’t break your hand or something, I swear to god, if you-”

Lexa quickly presents the bouquet with a pleased smile and watches Clarke’s relief spread. Clarke wrinkles her nose in confusion - it’s not date night, they’re not fighting about anything - then it registers that they’re carnations.

“Is it ‘My Wife is Beautiful and Amazing and Whatever’ day?” she asks with a grin. Lexa shakes her head.

“No. It’s ‘My Wife is Wonderful and Understanding and Patient, and I Don’t Know What I’d do Without Her’ Day.”

“That’s a mouthful.”

“I’m not in charge of these naming conventions.” Lexa holds out the flowers, and up close Clarke can see that interspersed between the pink carnations are sprays of white baby’s breath. “I was thinking,” Lexa says quietly, noting that Clarke is holding her breath, “that it might be nice to add something to our convoluted carnation days. And maybe there’s a lot of somethings we could add to, if you want to have that conversation?”

Clarke nods. “Yeah. That’d be nice.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you have a prompt you'd like to see here, feel free to send it in the comments, on tumblr (the--peripheral), or wherever else you might find me!


End file.
